


Show You How

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Hydra Trash Meme 2014 ongoing - blanket dub/non consent warnings [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, F/M, Gang Rape, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape, Restraints, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Hydra Trash Meme:<br/><i>Rumlow and Steve have started fooling around sometime shortly before the events of CA: TWS. They've done stuff - they've probably sucked each other off, maybe some fingering, whatever - but Rumlow hasn't actually fucked Steve yet. Steve is still a virgin in the sense of not having had penetrative sex, at least with a dude.</i></p><p>  <i>Steve is taken into custody, maybe after the bridge fight if they didn't get rescued. He gets taken to whatever horrible gang-bang cell exists in the HYDRA sub-basement with Rumlow and other random thugs. Rumlow says something with super mean fake tenderness like, hey, sorry I've kept you waiting this long to get your cherry popped, but I really wanted it to be the right moment . Which, of course, is going to be right now in front of everybody. Up to the writer if other people then get involved too.</i></p><p>  <i>Bonus points if Steve isn't particularly naive; he knows there's stuff Rumlow isn't telling him or maybe even that he's being played in some way, but obviously doesn't know the extent of it and is enjoying the sex and the general human contact/comfort before horrible things start going down.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Show You How

**Author's Note:**

> This is straight up rape. There's nothing dubious about it - Steve doesn't want sex and the Strike team chain him up, hold him down, and do it anyway. Please, please pay close attention to the warnings and make decisions about reading based upon personal preference. 
> 
> See end notes for warnings and spoilery summary of the whole thing for if you need to know what happens before you read.
> 
> *Police Camera Action voice* Viewer discretion advised.

Out of everything, the biggest betrayal ought to have been SHIELD. Pierce. The knowledge that everything he'd fought for and everything he'd stood up and been counted with is a lie. And, in a way, it was. For Captain America.

But for Steve Rogers, it runs deeper than that. It's nothing so complicated.

Brock Rumlow has been, for all intents and purposes, the mainstay of Steve's new life, an anchor in a stormy sea of loss and relearning.

It took them long enough to reach this point – Brock's a proud man and so is Steve. Months of in-jokes and friendly grins, of banter on missions and close-quarters first-aid, and it was Brock who made the first move. How could it not be? Steve barely has a clue.

They went from colleagues to friends, and from friends to something Steve never really knew how to define, but it was good and felt right. He felt as though he fit, even though it never felt permanent.

Brock was never overly romantic about things, never whispered sweet nothings or spent mornings with his arms wrapped around Steve – it didn't work that way, _they_ didn't work that way. Steve got the feeling that Brock was waiting for someone else – he talked about exes sometimes, spoke a little brashly about some of the female agents with the rest of the strike team, but Steve didn't begrudge him that. If Brock was fronting for the others, it was so the team would stay strong.

And sometimes Brock was colder, wasn't as patient, needed a little space. There were times he'd cite meetings that were “strike only” and would “only bore” Steve, or times he'd say “don't worry about it, it's nothing you need to think about,” or days he wouldn't return Steve's smiles, wouldn't answer the smartass comments with smartass comments of his own. And that was....odd but okay. Steve figured Brock just didn't feel like being sociable, just didn't want to see Steve. They weren't dating, Brock was perfectly entitled to his own space.

But Brock was strong and talented and he had a wry sense of humor and high cheekbones, and he liked being good at his job and clapping Steve on the shoulder when they filed their mission-successful reports. He leaned into Steve when they watched a ballgame on the television, didn't wipe the neck of the bottle when he Steve shared a beer, and had Steve's six whenever Steve found that he needed it. When he'd come straight out with it one day and said “do we have something here? I'd like something here,” there was no reason at all for Steve to say no.

And they'd done...not everything. They hadn't done everything, Steve hadn't been sure he could give that much to someone who didn't seem to be looking for permanence, but they'd done plenty between them, they kept each other satisfied. 

Even if Steve wasn't ready to leap headlong into something as new and unexpected as a relationship, and wasn't ready to give all of himself to someone who wasn't looking for one either, he wanted Brock and Brock wanted him – it worked for them. 

They'd talked a little about it – about waiting for the right partner, about strengthening the interpersonal bond of the team, about losing everyone and wanting someone, about needing someone to watch one's back. They both had their reasons, Steve had more than his share. Brock was good at seeing what he needed and giving it to him – a hand when he was down, company when he was lonely. Silence when he needed to sit in silence with someone who probably came closer to understanding why than most anybody else ever would.

Steve had known _nothing_ when they started fooling around, and it still made him blush to think of the things they were doing together. That old adage of _if you can't talk about it, you shouldn't be doing it,_ was an absolute crock as far as Steve was concerned. He hadn't just wanted it; he'd _needed_ it.

Every brush of Brock's hand, every smile directed solely at Steve, each little thing Brock did that said _you are wanted_ was one more thing Steve hadn't known he was aching for and soaked up like he couldn't live without it. It tethered him in an existence that made him feel like he was floating away, made him feel solid in a world that he so often felt transparent in the face of. He felt sometimes that he could fade into dust and nobody would miss him – and he _hated_ feeling that way. _Hated_ feeling so sorry for himself – but Brock could see it, even when Steve thought he was hiding it perfectly, and took it away. 

But Steve still couldn't say out loud the things they'd done together. He actually kind of liked it like that – as though it were a secret to keep all to himself, between the both of them. 

The nights he and Brock would fall into bed exhausted, and the mornings Brock would wake him with slow, thorough strokes of his calloused hands, or the communal shower when Brock had landed a stinging slap as Steve made his way past and Steve had grabbed at him in retaliation in a move that devolved into wet skin on wet skin and a great deal longer in a shower room anyone could have walked into, or that Brock would hit the emergency stop in the elevator as it transitioned from overground to underground late, late at night, flick a switch or kick a fuse and, in pitch darkness, he'd sink to his knees with a smirk Steve would _feel_ against his hip.

Brock had a tendency to bend rules just about as far as he could, with Steve along for the ride and, really, it should have bothered Steve more than it did. But Steve hadn't made it this far playing by the rules.

They didn't kiss, not really. At least, not like the way Steve had seen people kiss on street corners or in movies - it wasn't gentle that way. But Steve didn't _want_ gentle – he wanted biting and bruising fingers and stubble burn the same way two fingers were better than one because it was _real_ and he _wanted_ it but, more than that, _Brock wanted him too._

Brock took time out of his day to spend with _Steve_.

And he was _good_ at it, good at wringing pleasure from Steve with the smallest, simplest movements of his mouth and his hands and leaving nothing left but quiet and satisfaction, good at searching him out in the dark with skilled touches and easing the ache that coiled deep like a snake in his bones, good at breaking the nightmares open and seeing when Steve needed a voice or a touch or _something_ to keep him awake and alive where he'd have starved to death without it.

And it was _fun._

No pressure, no strings attached, just Rumlow and his grin first thing in the morning, Rumlow and his laughter last thing at night, Rumlow and his raised eyebrows, Rumlow and his sly gestures, Rumlow and his banter. They had a good time, Steve enjoyed himself.

Friends with benefits. Good friends with great benefits. Good times had by good friends with great benefits.

Which is partially why this whole thing stings so much. He trusted too quickly, and he could rationalize it, consider that maybe he was thrown out of his world and into one he didn't understand, taken from being surrounded by friends with a man who was his brother, and stuck slap bang in the middle of a life alien to him, alone and friendless, with people who either loathed or looked up to him, with very few people in between.

He didn't, so far, so much, have friends in this century. He had colleagues – and thank God for Natasha, thank God he'd met a man like Sam Wilson before all this went down – but no friends. He could say he'd wanted a new team at his back, that Strike were the new Commandos, but he knew the truth of it and that was almost as bad as the situation he was faced with now.

He'd needed someone. He'd been so alone that he'd reached out and taken hold of the first people he could find – SHIELD had been the ones to find him, to wake him, and the elite fighting team that had fended off the Chitauri attack didn't seem to have lasted past the battle of New York.

So when SHIELD had taken him back in, told him he could do good in the world and given him the Strike team whenever he'd needed them, he'd grabbed that without question and held on with both hands. And this, this was how enemies worked.

They got close to you, made themselves your friends and then stabbed you in the back – but Steve had never felt it like this before; he'd seen it happen to others but he'd never been the true victim of it himself. He'd stood with senators and nurses in Brooklyn and watched an American turn into a Nazi before his eyes and shoot the man who'd given him everything. He'd seen Natasha do it to other people, crawling under their skin to tear them to shreds before they realized. 

But Rumlow...Rumlow was _his_ – his backup, his Second In Command, his friend, his lover. What a word for Rumlow.

Because now Steve knows he's in an awful lot of trouble. 

To begin with, James Buchanan Barnes spent a long time trying to kill him today, and didn't even understand his own name, let alone recognise Steve. And Sam, oh Sam, had gotten out only to get back in for Steve's sake, had hung up his tags only to stretch out his wings because Steve didn't have the presence of mind not to show up on his doorstep. And Natasha, who'd come through for him when he thought the worst of her, trusted him when she trusted no one, had been brought down by a bullet Steve was too slow to stop. And Fury, whose paranoia had been well-founded, had bee killed by his own compartmentalization but might still save millions of others.

And nothing can make those things pale in comparison, but this might come close if he were to think about it.

He hasn't been allowed to keep his clothes because SHIELD aren't stupid. Because SHIELD issued him with pieces of wire he could hide in his seams, with tiny little blades that fold into the embellishments on his suits, so they assume he always carries them. 

His cell is not exactly small. He's seen some of SHIELD's containment cells, for the more dangerous threats that are brought in and monitored. There are cells made of concrete the size of broom closets, cells made of perspex that aren't big enough to sit down in, there are cells that are giant water tanks that could dwarf olympic pools and there are eight by six cells made of metal and stone that are designed to be the cold, dark place people are sent to rot.

But Steve's never been here. He's never seen a room like this.

This room looks like a wet room, looks like a doctor's office, looks like it isn't real. The walls are white and the ceiling doesn't have lights – instead, it's one huge light itself; like a giant piece of frosted glass that's open to the air. Except he knows the light is artificial because he knows how far he was led underground.

There's one door, and Steve knows where it is because one of the white walls shows a line there, but that's all. There's no handle. No lock. Just a door-shaped crack in the wall. Steve's not sure if the walls are like one giant tile (they look like it, the floor feels like it), but they're all smooth the way glass is smooth, without the texture of painted concrete, and he'd be concerned enough if there weren't numerous shackle loops embedded into the walls, and the floor, and the _ceiling_.

The cell is around fifteen feet square, and there's _nothing_ in it except Steve, and he hasn't missed the fact that he's basically sitting naked in a well-lit, wipe-clean box. He's been chained up with two huge metal gauntlets that cover his arms right up to the elbow, and they're on two lengths of chain that are probably around halfway as long as the room itself – which is not a good sign, because that much slack means he's not seen as a threat. There's no two-way mirror, he doesn't see any cameras, and that's worse because it means whatever happens here is not something other people are supposed to see – and this is HYDRA. What godforsaken things could HYDRA not want a record of?

He's betting on surgery, or torture, or some combination of the two. Maybe experimentation – what better things could they have planned for Erskine's supersoldier? On the other hand, maybe it's just intimidation, but Steve knows SHIELD has other ways to intimidate.

The only real thing he can get his head around is the fact that there's no way out, and the only person whose status he knows is his own. Natasha might be dead by now, if they didn't give her medical attention in time. Sam might be dead right now because he's a smart man with a smart mouth and the same kind of stubbornness Steve has. Sam's a good guy, and that won't do him many favors around here. 

Steve has a good grasp of things like time even when there are no indicators to help. Spending a day and a half holed up in an abandoned factory, for example, and still having to know the exact time of a rendezvous. Or needing to be aware of meetings and extractions even while he was still conducting himself in a fairly ordinary manner. 

So he knows he hasn't been here long – between an hour and three quarters and two hours – before the door opens.

It hisses, like an airlock, and eases inward. It doesn't swing – there are no hinges – it just pops inward like a giant door-shaped button before it slides off to one side on two hydraulic arms.

And Steve's expecting _somebody._ That's how this works – they send someone in and see how far they can get with him. What he's not expecting is the Strike team, because that's _not_ how things work.

Steve has the advantage of being able to think quickly – part of it's the serum, part of it's having grown up the way he grew up. Nobody pulled punches in back alleys in Brooklyn, and it doesn't look like anybody's going to pull their punches now. So he goes over what he knows.

Strike were his team and he trusted them – and that was a mistake.

SHIELD were at his back and he trusted them to trust him – and that was a mistake.

Rumlow was his friend and confidant and he trusted Rumlow because he wanted to trust someone – and that was the biggest mistake he's made so far.

Strike are HYDRA, in Pierce's pocket and highly dangerous, with a great deal of intimate knowledge about him – in all the ways that word implies.

Strike are also talented and strong and fast, and he's never had to face them head on before, never been on the wrong side of them before. SHIELD are big and run deep and he's probably overestimated his value and underestimated their ability for underhandedness. And Rumlow's got good qualities but he's not a nice man when he doesn't want to be. He's ruthless, can be unflinchingly cold and, as the door slides back into place behind Rumlow and the Strike team, with a soft, cushioned hiss that seals the room to be inescapable, Steve knows there must be a reason it's not just Rumlow in here.

There must a reason it's not just an empty face.

There must be a reason they're confronting him with the entire Strike team, and there are only a few he can think of – none of them good.

There are fourteen people in Strike, not counting Rollins and Rumlow, and one of them is a woman – they're all in here, and they're all spread out in a horseshoe around him, but they're all standing facing him where he's sitting, and Steve really doesn't like this. Whatever this is, this is going to hurt for sure. 

“So last time,” Rumlow says, and he doesn't speak loudly because he doesn't need to, “you beat up an elevator full of us and you left.”

Steve says nothing. He's got his gauntleted forearms resting on his knees – because there's absolutely no point trying to hide the fact that he's naked despite the fact that the impulse to cover himself is almost overwhelming – and he keeps his head down but he looks up at Rumlow with his eyes, keeps everyone in his peripheral vision.

Most of them look darkly amused, Rollins looks nothing short of hateful, which is not exactly unusual for Rollins, and Rumlow looks like he's enjoying this very much.

“And you know how it works,” Rumlow continues. “One of us asks you for information, you say no, and we torture you until you give it or die. Either one.”

Steve still says nothing – he's heard SHIELD staff use words like “coercion” and he's not too naïve to know what that means, but he's never been here for it. He doesn't know if it means open surgery without anaesthetic or being made to stand on his feet for days, doesn't know if it means he has to stay awake while they turn the temperature up and down or if it means they'll be taking his fingernails one by one. And it makes no difference.

“I won't tell you anything,” Steve says, and Rumlow scoffs.

“Yeah, but Steve, Romanoff and mouthy birdy are in two other cells, Fury and Sitwell are dead and you might've got the lowdown on Insight,” he says, “but I think you neglected to tell anybody else about it. So what the hell questions exactly do you think I want answers to?”

And the hair stands up on the back of Steve's neck so suddenly that he has to force back the shiver - it won't do to let Rumlow see it. But this is bad, this is worse than bad because there are thirteen men and a woman in here, all of whom have been trained to be hard and ruthless, and if they don't want to ask him any questions then he knows exactly what he's here for.

Entertainment.

“So what,” Steve says, spreading his metal-encased arms a little in a show of defiance he knows is stubborn but hell if he's not going to give them a fight, “you wanna go a few rounds while I'm still in these, make it a little fairer on you?”

And Rumlow laughs – that's the worst thing. If he'd snarled and struck out, the way Steve _has_ seen him do with prisoners before, that at least would give Steve something to fight against. If he spat and fumed, or just went right ahead and started beating him, Steve would at least know where he was. 

But Rumlow laughs for two reasons – one, he probably finds Steve's attempt at bravado amusing, because he doesn't believe Steve can do any damage when he's naked and chained to a wall with his arms in metal casts. He's wrong, and Steve will get his chance, and then Rumlow won't be laughing.

But two, Rumlow knows Steve hates being made fun of, being belittled, being not taken seriously, being treated the same way every bully in Brooklyn treated him and being laughed at the way everyone but _the Winter Soldier_ ever laughed at him.

It's done to throw him. Steve doesn't let it.

“I took ten of you in an elevator with one hand tied behind my back,” Steve says instead. “What the hell makes you think you're any safer in here than you were in there?”

And Rumlow's stance changes – which is right about when Steve realizes this isn't going to go the way he expected – so that his shoulders drop back and his chin comes up; the very best in arrogance that Steve's seen for a very long time.

“I already told you that wasn't personal,” he says. 

Steve doesn't even see what Rumlow does but there must be a signal – maybe he's just good enough at second-guessing Steve now that he planned out the whole conversation and the signal was the words themselves – but suddenly _everyone_ is moving, fast and determined, each one with a clear goal in mind.

 _Four_ of them grab his legs, two to each one, and drag him forward, his skin catching and squeaking on the shiny, wipe-clean floor with flares of friction-burning pain. It tips him backward as he's pulled forward, and he lands hard on his back, the air punched from his lungs, his arms still chained.

He struggles, of course he struggles, pulls against the restraints and the grasping fingers but there are already two men to each leg, then two more men by his head, one for each shoulder, and he feels one for each arm at least, probably another two by his wrists where the metal hides the contact.

They pull at him, shift him until they leave him stretched out, body flat on the floor while eight – no, ten – men hold him, kneeling on the floor at calf and thigh and shoulder, bicep, wrist, to hold him down. He fights them but Rumlow stands over him, smiling, eyes sparkling. 

“Think you can get out of this one?” he asks, and Steve stares up at him with the kind of confidence he doesn't feel and the kind of hatred he never knew could be so strong.

“You better make damn sure you kill me,” he snarls through teeth gritted so hard they hurt, lifting his head as far as he can – and that's not far – until the tendons are taut, “or I'm gonna heal right up and come for you.”

If anything, Rumlow looks more amused. 

“Oh, I'm counting on it, Cap,” he says, and Steve wants to punch him in the mouth and watch him swallow his goddamned teeth for still calling him that, for still saying it with such affection and familiarity, so much so that he almost misses what Rumlow actually says.

He goes over it twice in his mind in a matter of seconds before the full force of it hits home.

No.

Rumlow can't mean...

_No!_

But the four guys at his legs pull suddenly, so that Rumlow can walk right up between them and plant the sole of his boot in the middle of Steve's chest. Steve can feel the toe of Rumlow's other boot under his _ass_ Rumlow's so close, and Rumlow leans down to look at him and smiles.

“Thought I'd teach you to dance,” he says, and anger, white hot and piercing, flares inside of Steve, that voice in the back of his mind that screams _I trusted you_ and then they're folding him in two, shoving his legs up. He pushes for all he's worth, struggles so hard he's up on his shoulders, and they almost break his left leg, almost snap it at the knee in the wrong direction but they hold him down and shift and pull instead, and he drops as the locked joint gives and they fold him in half so that his knees are out and up, almost at his chest. 

It crushes the muscles in his stomach, puts so much pressure on his lungs he's already half out of breath, and the other six haven't moved, still holding his upper body down but there is nothing, _nothing_ that compares to this, no other time he's felt so helplessly, humiliatingly, thoroughly exposed.

“Do your worst,” Steve says anyway, refusing to look down at himself and the twisted, naked spread of his body, staring up at Rumlow without blinking.

“Aw, Cap,” Rumlow answers, baring his teeth in something that would be either a grin or a threat – but this is Rumlow, so it's both. “Where'd be the fun in that?”

Rumlow lifts his boot off Steve's chest and Steve pulls against the men holding him down – Rollins, and another man, and the woman, all stand a little way back from Rumlow, watching him with obvious interest – but it does him no good. He might be stronger than them when he's standing, when he can move, when he's had warning, when he has _clothes_ but like this, on his back with his arms bound and held down above his head, knees spread and pressed up to his chest to be held there by four men, give him no chance at all. He's more vulnerable now than he's ever been, and he's terrifyingly aware of just which parts of him are most exposed.

Rumlow kneels down between his legs, strokes one warm, calloused palm over Steve's flaccid cock and smiles as Steve bites down the urge to be sick, as Steve face heats with the humiliation of it. 

“I'm gonna make this good for you.”

“Fuck you,” Steve says, for being HYDRA, for making Steve trust him, for having Steve held down and open on the floor of a cell in front of thirteen other people, for making him think of Peggy at a time like this.

“I think you got that backwards,” Rumlow answers, and he reaches into his back pocket for something.

Steve hopes it's a knife or a gun, something designed to hurt or something he can try and turn to his own advantage. But it isn't a weapon.

It's lube.

“Give it to him,” someone says.

He struggles, tries to push his legs upward, tries to unfold himself, but Rumlow's coating his fingers and the angle of Steve's body is wrong, he can't unfold his legs because he can't get the leverage against the men holding him, and he can't move his arms because they're pinned to the floor. It means he can't sit up and he twists his torso desperately, but all he manages is to shift his body maybe an inch to either side and then Rumlow's fingertips, warm and slick, start to circle his hole where it's fucking pointed at the fucking ceiling.

He hears his own strangled squawk in his ears – Rumlow's done this before, they've done this together, but never more than this, never this as a prelude, and Steve doesn't want this, doesn't want Rumlow anywhere near him – but bites it back as someone laughs, tips his head back as he tries again to force his body to unravel and he clenches down automatically, his body trying to keep Rumlow's fingers out but it's no use, he might as well be on a silver platter for how well he's laid out.

He's so exposed Rumlow doesn't even have to hold him open. And somebody laughs.

 _It's only your body, it's only your body, they can't reach your mind, this is only your body-_ but it's no good, it doesn't work because it is good, feels good and smooth and slick and his body's used to wanting this from Rumlow. After twenty six years of his body betraying him, this body has never felt like this, has never betrayed him so completely.

“Relax, big guy,” Rumlow says, and _how dare he_ and Steve knows he can't get free but he tries again anyway, pushes against everyone, flexes his spine as much as he can because he could still stop this, he could still- “There you go.”

Rumlow's first two fingers slip inside him suddenly, the bright sharp pain of a torn fingernail catching flaring bright up Steve's spine, and he gasps because he can't help it – Rumlow's fingers are elegant and dextrous but they're not thin, and Steve can't look anywhere without finding eyes that look back at him, he's got no way to look that doesn't remind him of exactly where he is and exactly what's happening, what's about to happen. He can't shut his eyes and block it out and this isn't pain, isn't being beaten, this is every inch of skin exposed, every part of him he wants to hide displayed. He can feel the air on the sweat on his skin, feel his skin catch on the floor and on their hands – some are hot and sweaty, some cold and clammy, some are dry, and he can feel them _all_.

They breathe at him, stare at him, their movements are loud and the points of contact are inescapable.

One of the guys close to his elbow reaches down and pinches his nipple hard, twists as somebody else says something low and soft, just as Rumlow finds his prostate with firm, unyielding fingertips and grinds upward as he hisses through his teeth, the pain from his chest lancing downward with piercing inevitability, and Steve's body jolts without his consent.

 _Why should your body be any different,_ his mind tells him traitorously, and he shakes his head, presses his lips together, squeezes his eyes shut but he needs to keep them open, needs to keep an eye on his attacker, his attackers.

“That feel good?” someone says.

“Look at that,” Rumlow says softly, talking to someone else – the woman, it looks like, and Steve's face burns as she leans forward to watch because he knows what Rumlow's showing her:

Rumlow's already pressing hard enough against Steve's prostate that it distends his perineum, Steve can _feel_ it, and feel the response it's starting to cause. 

All of them are talking, speculating, muttering amongst themselves – the sound is constant, like a cafeteria or the cabin of a quinjet but Rumlow laughs, quietly enough that they might be in Steve's bedroom in his apartment, they might just be sitting next to each other in debrief, and changes his angle just a little, twisting his wrist just so.

“Fuckin' Madonna song,” somebody says, and when someone else hums the opening bars to _Like A Virgin,_ Steve screams in anger through his teeth, chest heaving.

Steve's new enough to sex, and he was close enough with Rumlow, that arousal is something he can only ignore until it's right in front of him. He doesn't get distracted on missions but as soon as Rumlow offers pleasure, he's done for. Now, now that Rumlow's got two fingers inside him and is working his way up to a third, it's just like it always was before, just like it's always been when Rumlow does this, and he's trying to ignore it but it's damn near impossible.

“How long did it take the first time, Cap?” Rumlow says and, more than almost anything, Steve wants him to stop using pet names, “three minutes, maybe four?”

And Steve hates him anyway for his betrayal, isn't about to let a little thing like Rumlow's self-satisfaction dash his spirits, but can't think of a single thing to say in response. The first time Rumlow touched him like this, he could have wept from it – it was so good and so intimate, and so much of _what he wanted_ and Rumlow was so sweet about it, kind and gentle and quiet and not making fun of the way he couldn't keep still or the way he couldn't speak enough to form words, or the way he lasted all of three minutes before he came untouched on Rumlow's fingers.

He tenses up as tight as he can, puts everything into keeping Rumlow _out_ , into making his body solid and immovable, into stopping Rumlow right where he is, making sure this goes no further. It makes his muscles ache but he doesn't give up even when they start to tremble. 

He's not still now either, he can't afford to let himself lie still, but the pushing and twisting is sapping his energy fast – the muscles in his legs and his knees are aching, his arms are strained where they're over his head.

“Come on, Cap,” Rumlow says and, between one breath and the next, Steve can't hold the tension in his muscles any more, and Rumlow's third finger slips in alongside the first two.

He makes a noise that scrapes up from his chest, bares his teeth and snarls a moment later but Rumlow doesn't take it as anything but a challenge and-

The next breath in is a lungful of air, a shock of _No!_ and a ripple down the length of his spine that cracks the back of his skull against the floor – he's got the full weight of four men against his legs and he still feels the way one tries to kick out in reflex as Rumlow's fingers catch just the _right_ way.

He has to force back a moan, chokes on the sound and it comes out a gurgle but comes out nonetheless, and he knows the heat in his body must show, knows the flush must be bright on his skin even as he tries to think of something else, anything else.

“There you go, Big Guy,” Rumlow soothes, a smile on his face with his eyes half closed and Steve curses his brain for how it snaps back to a warm summer evening in DC, of a hot winter night in Africa, a freezing cold summer morning in the Arctic circle and tens of places in between.

Rumlow's voice is low and encouraging and the muscle memory that responds to that is the biggest betrayal of all – he hears the jeering before he recognizes the feeling, and if he could kill them now where he couldn't before, it would be the moment Rumlow strokes the fingers of his other hand over Steve's rapidly hardening cock.

“Look at that, he _likes_ it,” someone chuckles out of his field of view, over his head.

“If you're gonna do it, why the hell don't you do it?” Steve spits, his voice quiet and, he hopes, dangerous, and Rumlow shakes his head, still smiling like a goddamned lunatic.

“Gotta make it special, don't we?” he says, and there's lube all over his hand, enough that when he starts to rub Steve's perineum with his thumb as a counterpoint, the movement is slick and easy and sends a flood of warmth billowing up inside of Steve that would be too intense to keep his legs open if he had any control over that at all.

Steve makes another noise, pushes against the men holding him down and, for the first time he can remember, it _doesn't help at all._ There's _nothing_ he can do.

“Now listen,” Rumlow says, as though there were nobody here but them as he flexes his fingers – and Steve knows exactly what's coming, knows exactly why Rumlow slows the movement of his hands, “I know I kept you waiting.”

Steve shakes his head, snarls again as Rumlow draws his fingers out, tries to throw them off but it's no use.

“And you've been real patient,” Rumlow continues as he unzips his fly, uncaring of the lube all over his hand that gets all over his pants, and Rollins - _Rollins,_ Rumlow's right hand, Steve's third in command – hands him a goddamned _condom._ “But I know what it is.”

He rolls the condom on, and Steve bares his teeth and arches his back to get leverage, squirms as hard as he can and pushes his legs up against the men weighing them down but it's no good, it's no good.

Rumlow shuffles forward on his knees, the rough material of his uniform scraping the insides of Steve's legs as one hand comes down next to Steve's flank, the other lining himself up.

“Don't,” Steve breathes at him, and he knows it's a weakness, knows it's pathetic but he can't get free and anger hasn't worked, he can't get out, he can't even turn his head and forget about this and he knows what Rumlow's going to say the instant before he says it, because he smiles. _“Don't!”_

“You were just waiting for the right partner,” Rumlow says, and _shoves_ forward, pushing himself into Steve with one hard thrust. 

Steve can't help the cry that gets past his lips, can't help the way his eyes squeeze shut and his fingers curl into fists in the casts, how his toes curl tight and his heels dig in against the backs of his thighs, how his whole body tries to bow inward because it's too sudden and too much and he's too dizzy to know who it is when someone says “how is he?”

Rumlow draws back fast and shoves forward again, his cock thick and hot and blunt and _painful_ , and Steve bites his lip to get through it, feels sweat break out on his upper lip, across his chest. Rumlow doesn't let up – the pseudo-gentle preparation was all he gets. Rumlows hips snap forward hard and fast, shaking Steve's body with every thrust, his skin squeaking on the floor.

He can't get away from it, from the full length and heat of Rumlow's body on his own, the crushing weight on his legs, the staccatto of Rumlow's breaths on skin he can't believe he once bared willingly and the knowledge that this is gone, it's been taken, he can't ever get this back.

“Fuckin' tight,” Rumlow answers, the words bitten out and too close, Rumlow's voice right over him the way it's been so many times before, Rumlow's breath warm on his throat, Rumlow's hands hot on his skin, and Steve pushes and pulls but it's no use.

Someone's hands are on him, two pairs, but he doesn't know where they're coming from because he doesn't know whether to open his eyes or close them and couldn't open them now if he tried anyway, and they stroke over his chest, toy with his nipples as though this weren't humiliating enough.

“Yeah,” somebody says, like you'd talk to a baseball game, and someone else joins in too. 

“Yeah, Rumlow!”

“Fuck 'im good,” and Steve's going to kill each and every single fucking one of them, starting with whoever the _fuck_ that was and when he's made a mess of all of them, made sure none of them can ever do this again, he'll tear Rumlow to fucking pieces. 

Rumlow's fingers are tight and bruising on his skin and he knows, if he lives, he's going to ache for days. His wrists already feel slick in the metal casts but he doesn't know if it's blood or sweat and can't get past the fact that _Rumlow is doing this to him._

The rest of them start to jeer a little louder, laughing and leaning down hard as they get into it, as Rumlow speeds up and Steve can't do anything except lie still and take it, joints creaking under the extra weight. Rumlow starts to sweat, and it falls onto Steve's chest where Rumlow licks it up, tongue hot and clever over Steve's collarbones, over Steve's nipples, teeth against his throat.

He whines, stretches his head back as far as he can, tries to shake Rumlow off but it doesn't do any good.

Rollins is clapping slowly, the guy next to him is hollering about it and the rest of them join in like a spectator sport, “Come on, Brock!” and “he fucking loves it!” and “where's that bitch Widow for you now, Cap?” as the woman laughs and says “I dealt with her; she's not going to be a problem for us any more,” just as someone else says “fucking Avengers,” and their voices drown out the sound of skin on skin, the slick squelch of too much lube and movements Steve can't fight off. 

_No,_ he thinks, _Natasha!_ Someone else he wasn't there to save.

“Oh say can you _see!”_ someone screams with laughter, and someone else is humming America the Beautiful.

“Maybe we should fetch the asset,” someone tells him, and Steve _screams._

It's enough to shock them all into silence, enough to stop even Brock's movements, but he starts up again a few seconds later, slower this time, and their voices are low.

“What's the matter?” Rumlow asks. “From what I hear, it's nothing he hasn't seen.”

Steve gets enough movement to slam his right arm up two inches before the chain jolts it to a stop, and Rumlow's smug expression darkens as he flicks his gaze up.

Someone mutters an apology, and Rumlow just sneers.

“Keep his fucking arm down,” he says, and Steve tips his head back and glares at the guy, hoping there's a weakness there.

There isn't – the guy spits in his face and the rest of them chuckle at him.

“Something missing,” Rumlow says, his breath ragged, his fingers tight and his voice rough and low. “I'd almost think you weren't enjoying this.”

And Steve should have known what was coming, should be aware of Rumlow's plan, but it's still so much a shock when Rumlow's fingers curl around his cock that he gasps, that his stomach _aches_ with effort as he tries to double up, tries to cover himself. The way he's held, he's immobile from chest down, but he tries, oh, he tries.

Rumlow has to crane his neck to suck marks into the skin of Steve's throat but the effort doesn't stop him ding it and pain, a bright ache of teeth, surges into him – the marks will fade in hours if not minutes, just like everything else, and he turns his head into his bicep because he can't turn it any further, tries desperately to break free of a grasp that, for once, is too strong.

He tries to say no, tries to say something smart, something angry, tries to say anything, and all that comes out is a low whine as he pulls his body any way he can, head back, eyes closed, jaw clenched but it does no good – Rumlow's already made him do this so many times before, and Steve _let_ him, that he feels the inevitability of it winding up like a coiled spring, tighter and tighter deep in his belly, and he thinks of anything else – cold and ice and crashing a plane into endless white but it doesn't work.

_I still don't know how to-_

_Sometimes I think you like getting-_

_Not a perfect soldier-_

_What makes you so special?_

And in his last act of defiance, he shuts down, does nothing, clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut as Rumlow drives forward and forward, as pleasure courses through him like a runaway train and he can't get away, can't push back, can't get out.

He doesn't know how to stave off orgasm because he's never had to, never needed to, Rumlow never said he should, never taught him how and his body never learned and then Rumlow's breath is hot on his cheek as white pleasure bursts behind his eyelids.

“Hail HYDRA,” and Steve's coming so hard he can't breathe, so hard his blood roars in his ears and his stomach aches with it, his neck strains but won't stretch far enough – he can't get away, can't kick out or curl up and it just prolongs it, makes the sweet burn of it curl deeper and stronger with each thud of muscle that wracks his body, and he can't stop _coming,_ can't stop the wet, choking sounds he's making while he still tries to breathe.

Those with their hands free are clapping, those whose hands are occupied are cheering Rumlow on, and Rumlow follows a moment later with his own orgasm, drawn out by _Steve's_ , a long, obscene moan that's too loud in Steve's ears and Rumlow's gentleness was gone a long time ago but his brutality rears its head as he shoves and shoves and _shoves_ before he's shuddering to a stop, going still and laughing right in Steve's face.

Rumlow rears back as Steve, chest heaving, tries to bite him, Steve's teeth clicking shut on nothing, and he gets bitten in return for his efforts – sharp and hard and pulling no punches, into the meat of his bicep where his arms are still stretched so far and so tight and it hurts to the tips of his fingers.

“How was your first time, sweetheart?” somebody asks, and Steve narrows his eyes at Rumlow cocks his head.

“Probably not ideal,” Rumlow says. “I'm sorry I couldn't get a hold of any candles.”

Steve just does his best to smile though he feels fit to vomit, and says, “at least everyone else I'll ever have'll be better than you. Although I guess-” and he means to say something like _that would always have been the case_ , means to insult Brock with the kind of petty jibes that really riles him up, but someone second-guesses him and slaps Steve hard across the face, comes back to mash their palm against his face, and their hand is sticky – doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

Rumlow pulls out roughly, enough to make Steve wince and hiss, as Rumlow strips the condom off and tosses it to one side before he tucks himself back in and zips himself back up.

“I wouldn't count on that,” Rumlow says, and Steve's a fool for thinking maybe it's over, that maybe Brock has what he wanted. Brock only smiles and settles his hands on his hips. “Maybe we should take photographs,” he says. “When Insight launches, and the world learns to fear us, I bet twitter would explode over this.”

Steve makes a whole bunch of noises he didn't even know he could manage, snarling and grunting and whining in anger and he'll kill them, all of them, but it doesn't do a thing. Rumlow's still smiling, even as he takes a step back and Rollins takes a step forward.

Rumlow just laughs as he walks away – other side of the cell to press a button by the door – and holds out a hand to Steve where Steve's folded in half on the floor with his own come on his chest and his face, with ten men holding him down and his body still gaping from Rumlow, still loose and sore, still wet and open and held that way so all of them can see.

“All yours,” Rumlow says, and Rollins steps forward and kicks him in the ribs as he tugs off his belt. “Call me when you're done.”

The rest of them take it as a signal and move together as Rumlow leaves, coordinated the way a Strike team has to be, to get him onto his stomach, then onto all fours and he fights them all the way but Rollins' belt is thick and unbreakable and around Steve's throat a second later as the door hisses shut.

Rollins fucks him like that, kneeling behind him so that Steve's on all fours like an animal, with the belt cutting so hard into his skin, so tight around his neck, that he drools as he fights for air, the edges of his vision going dark. 

It's like being dropped into molasses, like slowly freezing solid with no way back to the surface and the only thing that keeps him upright, the only thing that keeps him on his hands and knees is the sheer number of people keeping him there – faces too close, stale coffee on their breath like sour milk that turns his stomach.

Rollins doesn't let him come but makes it so he wants to, makes it so he might beg if he were somewhere else, with someone else – pushes and pushes, strokes and pinches and jerks him right to the edge before he leaves him with his cock leaking and his vision darkening, and there are hands all over him, some gloved and some bare, hands stroking and squeezing and finding every place he longed for someone to find before and can't stand to have them touching now. Rollins' hands are strong and tireless so it seems to Steve and some distant part of him knows this could kill him. Some distant part of him knows Rollins won't let that happen, too. 

He's close, and fighting for air as he fights it back, forces down the movements of his muscles and ignore the roaring in his ears and just as he about to betray himself for the second time, just as his body is about to compound his torture, Rollins lets go and someone punches him in the face before the belt comes loose.

Rollins' thrusts slow as he cracks the palm of his hand over Steve's ass, he must have come but Steve doesn't remember it, head throbbing, gasping for oxygen now he can finally breathe, and someone kicks Steve in the stomach when he's ready to collapse so that he goes over onto his side.

“What do you think?” somebody asks, and Steve's mouth is slack while his brain learns to think again, Steve's temples are throbbing while the oxygen returns, his body numb while somehow it burns all over.

Rollins, it turns out, hasn't come inside him – he waits until he can kneel over Steve's face. Someone holds his head still even as he tries to turn it, and he squeezes his eyes shut as Rollins groans above him, feeling the guy's release gum his eyelashes and stripe his cheek, his lips.

It goes on like this.

“What'd Rumlow prep him for?” someone complains when Steve is losing his ability to fight. “Bitch is loose as fuck.”

“Fuck America,” someone says when Steve can barely keep his eyes open, the words jarring with each thrust, “and fuck you.”

“Can you even fucking believe this?” someone whispers when, five men in, he catches someone's ankle and sends them crashing down.

He gets Rollins' boot between his legs for his trouble but he can't yell about it – he can only gasp, whine, he can only try and curl up on himself when he knows he'll never manage. They don't just fuck him, they hurt him to. Kicking and hitting and one or two don't bother with lube, one or two do things that lube wouldn't help anyway.

“Blushes all the way down,” someone mutters, and then a laugh, “all he needs is a punch or two.”

And there's a long silence before someone else says, “what?” and a frustrated sigh that follows it.

“That way he'd be red, white and blue? Get it?”

“Oh.”

“Jesus, it wasn't that fucking complicated.”

Steve can't figure out if it's better or worse that at least half these guys are fucking stupid.

There's one kid who doesn't follow orders – young, shakes his head when they point out it's his turn, backs away when they start to jeer and he's pale, nervous, keeps looking at Steve like he's the only one of them who knows what will happen if they loosen their hold even for just a second. Steve figures maybe the kid gets to die quick for that. Or maybe Steve won't kill him outright, maybe they'll take him into custody and let him rot in a cell instead.

But as much as the kid is afraid, as much as the kid won't meet his eyes, the rest of them think it's hilarious and nobody leaves, nobody stops it.

“It's a right of passage!” someone says indignantly, when Steve's arms are aching and his knees are raw and there are so many scratches and bruises that he's lost count.

“It will be from now on,” someone else laughs, and that would be a threat Steve would fear if he thought for a moment they'd be able to keep him like this for any length of time. 

Someone will slip up sooner or later and Steve will still be waiting when they do.

And then when half of them are done, maybe more, when Steve thinks he can't take any more and knows he won't be given a choice, the woman says, “Big boy. Think he can keep it up a little longer? He's got more than one virginity to lose.”

And something inside of Steve turns over.

 _No,_ his mind tells him, _No!_ because it almost doesn't matter what they've done to him, almost doesn't matter what they want from him – this is worse. He doesn't know how it can be, after everything, but something small and weak and pathetic deep inside of him shies away and hides its face and whispers _but that was for Peggy_ and then _don't think of Peggy!_ he will not let them break him, he will not let them see him shatter into pieces.

This is just the same, it doesn't have to be any different, and it's the biggest humiliation he's ever suffered, it hurts and it's shameful and he hates them but she's just the same as Rumlow, it doesn't have to be-

But it's just as raw and hurtful and he manages to look up at her as he's turned onto his back, manages to see the sour expression on her face and she reminds him of _Peggy_ a little, powerful and beautiful and she reminds him of Natasha just a little too, her stature and the eyebrow she raises as she slides her earpiece out and lets it drop.

He could swear Natasha's there for a moment, expects her to give him a name, set him up on a date, _I'm multitasking_ but she rolls the condom onto him and he tries to fight. She favors her left side a little,probably an old wound and it will be a weakness when Steve gets an opportunity, but they've broken something in him, he knows they have – a bone in his leg feels too sharp, one arm won't cooperate fully and there's blood and semen on his face, on his chest, he's a mess and she slides out of her uniform pants, the most exposed of all of them _except Steve._

“Tell me to stop,” she says, and Steve shakes his head, won't beg no matter how much she wants him to.

She reaches down to hold her panties to one side as she straddles him, and then she sinks onto him with a smirk and he can't bite back the moan, can't stop the way his back arches and his head falls back and his mouth falls open as his eyes squeeze shut.

This is different, better, worse, she's hot and wet and tight and he's never felt anything like her, never felt anything as good and he's in pain, he's in so much pain inside and out, he feels like he'll never walk right again but he knows he will, knows he'll heal and they'll do this to him again if they get the chance, but the pain begins to fall to pleasure, begins to fade as the pleasure swells. 

“Relax,” she croons, the way Natasha never stops telling him to do, and he tries desperately to think of something else.

It doesn't work.

“Shame his hands aren't free,” she says, squeezing her breasts through her tee as she rises and falls on him, and he chokes on his moans.

The seam of her panties is sharp on the side of his cock, the almost-soft thatch of auburn enough to feel good on sensitive flesh and she's so wet and so warm and she slides her hands up his chest and back, smirks down her nose and rises and falls and the rest of the team look caught between awe and arousal – they jeered before, but a woman is new to them, that a woman would want this-

“No,” Steve slurs, all he can manage, but she clenches down around him and his next breath in is a gasp that shudders, a desperate wordless plea as though someone, anyone else, could hear him. 

_Please let it just be over,_ everything they've taken and everything they'll take from here, and he thrashes his head as it winds up again, can't stand to come again but she smiles, raises that eyebrow again and stares down impassively.

“You want me to stop?” she says, as though she weren't riding his cock like a professional. “Thinking about teaching some lessons, Rogers?”

And the way she says his name is so familiar, the way she asks like she already knows the answer gets so far under his skin.

“Then there's a chance,” she says, her eyes bright and piercing, “you might be in the wrong business.”

And she squeezes her breasts, arches her back so her shirt rides up and _there it is!_

In a rush of silence so loud it's deafening, the world comes back to him, because there's a red and purple pucker of skin on her abdomen, a bullet-wound scar that _he's seen before_ and his mind races, his heart races, someone else misunderstands and starts to cheer her on but she's staring at him with eyes he should have recognised before now as more than wishful thinking, because he knows it's her, _knows it's her_ and he says the only thing he can think of, the only thing his oxygen deprived, dehydrated, fucked out brain can give him.

 _“Help_ me!”

And she moves. 

Like quicksilver she's up and gone with a movement that wrenches his stomach, and she twists herself backwards and she lashes out and two are down, three are down.

“Oh shit,” someone whispers, the kid, he cowers, and Steve's legs are free.

That's all he needs.

He's never fought naked before, never fought like this before – hard and broken and dirty and furious – he's never fought so hard and he _tears the chains from the wall_ and beats the nearest people with them.

“Steve!” and he doesn't know how she pulls off her face to be _Natasha_ as he looks at her but she's got five-

-six down and he's taken out another two with each arm and punches forward with one metal cast. It's agony but one of the two remaining men – Rollins, who charged Steve with all the anger Steve felt off him before, the man she was warning him about – crumples with a whole lot of blood pouring from his nose. 

Steve doesn't turn Rollins onto his back – he doesn't care if Rollins breathes or not.

And then he becomes aware that there's one man left, snivelling in the corner behind him. He doesn't have to turn slowly, doesn't have to stand with his feet firm despite the broken leg and his head high despite the pounding headache and his shoulders back despite the urge to make himself as small as he can and crawl into the nearest dark space and stay there. But he does, naked and filthy and furious, his hands still in the metal casts, chains trailing off them like weapons. 

He turns to face the kid, and keeps his voice low and dangerous – Steve Rogers is fucking terrifying when he wants to be and he puts everything he's got into it now.

 _"You,"_ he says.

He takes one step towards the kid, and another, doesn't even know what he's going to do once he reaches him, and he never gets that far.

The kid kind of chokes on a sob and pitches sideways to slide down the wall into a heap, unconscious.

“Come on,” Natasha says and, when he turns to look, she's tugging the uniform pants back on, finding the mesh that covered her face before. “We'll strip one of these guys for his pants and we'll get you out of here – pull a Star Wars, you can be my 'prisoner.'”

“Where's Sam?” he manages, his voice raw and rough, his throat sore, his lungs aching, and his leg and his arm and his head and his stomach and his _ass_ are killing him but he gives the unconscious Strike team a once-over and points with the end of the metal cast, and Natasha sets about stripping the tallest, broadest guy.

“Waiting for us,” she says, and she turns her back, gives him as much privacy as she can before they both realize he'll need her help. 

His hands are still in the casts. 

He looks up at the ceiling and then closes his eyes as she strips off the condom, as she helps him step into the stolen pair of uniform pants and tugs them up with surprising gentleness to zip and button the fly. 

“I'm sorry,” she says, and she actually sounds it.

“You didn't have a choice,” Steve answers. “It was a good plan.”

And inside he hates her for taking what didn't belong to her at the same time he's never been more glad to see her in his life.

“I know where they keys are for those things,” she says, and she winces, still favoring her left side.

“How are you holding up?” he says, and he starts to limp towards her, trying to move in a way that doesn't make every muscle scream. 

It's difficult to do when you have to step around twelve unconscious men while your insides heal.

“I need a doctor,” she says, “but I stitched myself up okay. Let's get moving.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, standing completely still because he won't leave without an explanation.

She re-activates the mesh and, suddenly, she's not Natasha any more. She's Strike, she's the woman who took what he didn't want to give, and he has to will himself not to hurt her for looking like that, for being that other woman, even though that other woman is her.

What is Sam going to think of him?

“We'll find him,” she says. “We'll find him.”

What is _Bucky_ going to think of him?

And she stops and looks at him, says “are you okay?” as though the answer could be 'yes' somehow, and he sucks the blood off his lower lip where he bit through it trying to stay silent.

“My leg is broken,” he answers, not that it's stopping him kind of walking on it, “and Rumlow's on borrowed time.”

There's a small quirk to one corner of her mouth as she gets the cell door to open. 

“If I find him, I'll save him for you,” she says, “try and look like...”

But she doesn't have to say it. Neither of them needs her to. _Try and look like you've just spent an hour and a half at the mercy of Strike,_ and Steve is pretty sure he's doing a damned good job of that one.

“We'll get you help as soon as we can,” she says softly, almost kindly, and Steve shakes his head as she leads him out into the corridor looking like a woman he doesn't know.

“We're getting Sam, and we're getting Bucky,” he says. “And then the four of us?” He sets his jaw, gives her a look and he can't read her expression properly, doesn't know if the fear is an act and doesn't care. “We burn HYDRA to the ground.”

And he holds onto the fact that Rumlow will only die fast and clean if he's unfairly lucky, otherwise it will be slow and dirty and painful. Like he deserves.

**Author's Note:**

> Having been exploring his sexuality with Rumlow, Steve discovers he's into a lot of things, but still hasn't given or received penetrative sex so technically remains a virgin.
> 
> After the fight on the causeway, where the Winter Soldier's identity is revealed to Steve, he and Nat and Sam are separated. Steve is stripped and chained and Rumlow, as well as all the other members of Strike come into his cell to hold him down and jeer while Rumlow rapes him. Rumlow pretends he's doing Steve a favor, taking it slowly and carefully and implying that Steve should be enjoying himself, using his accrued personal knowledge of Steve to make the experience all the worse.
> 
> Rumlow leaves once he's finished, leaving Steve at the mercy of the remaining members of Strike, one of whom is a woman. Halfway through raping Steve, she manages to convey that she's actually Natasha in disguise. They work together to escape.


End file.
